


A Study in Earthbending

by patster223



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an earthbender who was sent back to Republic City after being invalided home from the army. There he meets Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective and one of the most powerful benders in the city, who appears to have left both a riding crop and a fire ferret in the mortuary. Sherlock fusion with Legend of Korra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Sherlock fusion with the Legend of Korra/Avatar the Last Airbender. There are spoilers for ASiP and for the setting (but not the plot/characters) of Legend of Korra. You don’t need to have seen Legend of Korra to read this, all you need to know is that it takes place in a steampunkish universe where there are people who are able to “bend”, or kinetically manipulate, the elements using various styles of martial arts. There are earthbenders, firebenders, waterbenders, and airbenders. Thanks to Brandon for looking this over for me.

John’s eyes never drifted from the rock in front of him, never strayed from their target as he widened his stance, deepened his breathing, closed his eyes, struggled to maintain his connection with the earth. The coarse ground beneath his bare feet was meant to stabilize him, support John’s idiotic leg even when he couldn’t. In order to move a rock, you must be as enduring and unyielding as the rock itself: this was what all earthbenders knew. Even so, John’s leg trembled in protest at the weight of his body. John gritted his teeth and took a quick breath before throwing his arm forward in a powerful jab that left his fist just centimeters from the boulder, and—

Nothing. The rock didn't moved an inch. 

John cursed, but settled back into his stance, cursing again when his leg upgraded from trembling to full-on shaking, threatening to betray him. John breathed deeply, sweat shining on his forehead just from the effort of keeping himself upright. His hands clenched into unsteady fists and he angrily thrust his arms forward, only to have his leg finally collapse under the strain, felling John like a tree. 

For a moment John just lay there, eyes closed as he tried to ignore the throbbing ache in his leg and shoulder. Swallowing heavily, he cracked an eye open only to find the rock had remained stationary despite John’s best efforts, mocking him with its stillness. Sighing, John pushed himself to his feet, grabbed for the cane he’d kept in arm’s reach, and walked stiffly out of the gym. Well, it’d been worth a shot. 

///

When John was a kid, he’d had the ability to bend entire boulders with nothing but a solid stance and a bit of patience. He’d lift his hands up in the air – watching with satisfaction as a rock one hundred paces away hovered obligingly – and then threw it aside with a boyish rush of adrenaline. Earthbending was as integral a part of him as his hands or feet – hell, it was part of the reason John had joined the army, so he could learn from the great generals at the front and use his skills to help people.

Well, not that John was doing much of that anymore. He couldn’t move so much as a pebble these days, and without his bending, Republic City had a lackluster look to it, its gleaming lights only imitations of what they used to be in John’s memory, its thousands of inhabitants only serving to cram John in and make him feel claustrophobic, accentuate how bloody alone and dull he’d become. 

John shook his head and kept walking, reminding himself he got enough pity at his therapist’s office -- he didn’t need to start pitying himself too. 

“John! John Watson!”

John blinked in surprise upon seeing Mike Stamford walking over to him, seeming as jocular and oblivious as ever. Automatically he presented his hand, grasping Mike’s firmly in his own. “Mike, hello,” he said politely. “A surprise seeing you here.”

“I’ll say,” Mike said with a laugh. “Here I was thinking you were in some far off colony getting shot at by firebenders or equalists, or whoever’s stirring up trouble these days. What brings you back to Republic City?”

John smiled tightly. “I got shot.”

Mike had a special talent for gracefully smoothing over awkward silences, so thankfully the one that followed was brief and soon forgotten. Within minutes and without John quite noticing how, Mike had them both sat down with a cup of leechi juice, chatting it up about the good old days. John’s end of the conversation was slightly more stilled, probably because all he really wanted to do was get back to his tiny flat in the backend of the city. 

“So,” Mike said, still chuckling at the rehashed memory of an old school prank, “you planning on staying in Republic City?”

John laughed, unable to help the tinge of bitterness that accompanied it. “No way I can afford Republic City on an army pension.”

“And you couldn’t bear to live anywhere else.” When Mike chuckled again John felt far less affable to it than he had before. “Bloody stubborn earthbenders.”

Mike hadn’t meant anything by it, but a grimace automatically spread itself across John’s face, his grip on his cane tightened. John took a deep breath, slowly feeling the sensation of the earth beneath his feet and the grain of the wooden cane in his hand before smiling weakly at Mike. 

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike said, thankfully sensing a touchy subject and steering around it. 

John snorted. His sister, one of the drunkest, most miserable people in all of Republic City? John wouldn’t survive a day in her house before going mad.

“How about a flatmate?” Mike shrugged.

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Who’d want to share a flat with me?” he asked distractedly. Feeling the sudden strength of Mike’s stare, John looked at him quizzically. “What?”

“Well, it’s just, you’re not the first person to ask me that today.”

John’s interest was piqued despite himself. “And who was the first?”

///

The first thing that drew John’s attention in the lab was how much it had changed: the pace of technological advancement had rushed forward in John’s absence, leaving polished, finely tuned scopes and magnifying glasses, strange electrical machines that sat on the counter – John hadn’t a clue what purpose they served --, and even a bloody telephone!

The second thing that drew John’s attention, only seconds after the first, was the incredibly odd – odd even for the lot that hung around Republic City -- man who stood completely motionless at one end of the lab, studying carefully crafted glasses of different colored liquids. His hair stood in all different directions – one lock of it actually looked _singed_ – and his skin was pale to the point of looking pasty. The man was dressed in the richly colored, silken clothes only the rich entrepreneurs of the City seemed to be able to afford, and it made John very conscious of the simple, green and grey clothing he’d managed to scrounge up from his own wardrobe. John coughed into his hand, about to introduce himself, when the man interrupted his unspoken words.

“Mike, can I borrow your pen? I need to send out a message and I haven’t anything to write with,” he said, his voice a tightly controlled baritone. 

“Sorry,” Mike said, sounding unapologetic – John could guess that this was a common request from the man – “I don’t have one on me. Why can’t you use the telephone?

The man’s mouth twisted in distaste. “I’m not fond of them, they involve people being able to talk back. Messages as a form of communication are delightfully one-way: I give the message to one of my people, they deliver it, and I don’t have to answer stupid questions.”

John laughed under his breath, acknowledging that he was a bit taken aback by this strange man. And maybe that’s why, even though John’s one nice possession was his pen because he was as poor as shit, and he didn’t even know this weird man who hung out in a mortuary, John heard himself say, “Here, I have a one.”

“One of my old school mates, John Watson,” Mike supplied. 

The brunt of the stranger’s attention was suddenly focused on John, the man’s colorless, calculating eyes zeroing in on him, analyzing him. John blinked, cocking his head slightly but offered the man his pen, which he quickly used to scrawl out a message. 

“Yu Dao or the Hu Xin Provinces?” 

John started. “Pardon?”

The man sighed, as if he was being done a great injustice by being forced to repeat himself. “Which was it, Yu Dao, or the Hu Xin Provinces?” he repeated, handing John back his pen. 

“Yu Dao,” John said slowly, the words barely out of his mouth before a mousy girl walked in and brought some tea to the man. The man had carelessly dismissed her and had returned to studying his vials before John could quite process what was going on. 

“I play the erhu when I’m thinking,” the man said. “Would that bother you? Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, and just in case you’re opposed to such things – which I know you’re not, given that you’re one too – I am a bender.” Upon seeing the look of confusion on John’s face, he continued, “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” as if that explained anything at all. The man gave a strange sort of smile before returning to his work. 

“Mike, did you tell him about me?” John said helplessly.

Mike shook his head. “Not a word.”

“Then who said I wanted a flatmate? Or that I’m a bender, or that I was in Yu Dao?” John said, exhaustion from the day’s events just about to catch up with him. But at the same time, there was a small spark of excitement, a touch of something new to this strange person, and it was enough to keep John from walking out that door. 

“I was just telling Mike this morning that I needed a flatmate and now he shows up with an earthbender clearly just back from military service in Yu Dao? No difficult leap,” the man said breezily, putting on a silk blue scarf and long, dark jacket. “There’s a place in central Republic City that we can afford together, we’ll meet there tomorrow evening. Sorry, must dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. And possibly a fire ferret,” he said, frowning slightly. 

“Wait, so all of a sudden we’re just going to move in together?” John sputtered. 

“Problem?” the man said with a devastating raise of an eyebrow. John swallowed. 

“We know nothing about each other,” John said, his feet planted firmly and adamantly, good old fashioned earthbender that he was. “I don’t know where this flat is, and I don’t even know who you are.”

The man’s eyes did that thing again, where they bored into John as if he were underneath a magnifying glass, where they looked at him in such a way that John could practically feel the man’s gaze on his skin. John shifted, but didn’t look away. The man began speaking, talking so fast that his words should theoretically be stumbling over themselves in order to be vocalized, but instead arriving gracefully out of his mouth. 

“I know that you’re an earthbender, mostly self-taught despite your military service, and that you were invalided out of Yu Dao. Not only that, but you were a _doctor_ in the army. I know you have a brother, likely a non-bender who lives in the city, but you won’t go to him for temporary boarding, probably because he’s an alcoholic, or because he walked out on his wife,” the man looked at John hard for a second, “probably both. Your therapist thinks your limp and your difficulty bending are both psychosomatic, and I’m afraid she’s quite correct. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” The man moved toward the door as he spoke, and now that John was looking he could see it, how the man’s graceful movements spoke of a trained bender.

Before walking out the door, the man turned to John and said, “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” Then, honest to God, the man – Sherlock – _winked_ before walking out the door, leaving John bemused, annoyed, and maybe a little bit thrilled. 

///

John spent the majority of that evening and the following day most definitely _not_ thinking about earthbending, and definitely thinking quite a bit about this strange Sherlock Holmes character. He was a madman, that much was certain, and beyond madness John had no idea what to expect from this flat.

Madness did sum up 221B Baker Street quite nicely though. The flat could be called charming, if one was feeling generous, though to be honest, it just looked like a bit of a dump. Scrolls and books were everywhere, there was some sort of scientific apparatus in the kitchen, a _skull_ was on the mantel piece, and burn marks were on the wall (though to be fair, Sherlock _did_ warn John that he was a bender). In one chair lounged a fire ferret, which Sherlock seemed to be resolutely ignoring. 

“Is it yours?” John asked, pointing his cane to the creature, remembering Sherlock saying something about a fire ferret yesterday. The ferret looked at John with a sort of pompous disinteret that John was already to be recognizing as Sherlockian. 

“Hmm? Oh no,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Or technically yes, he was a gift from a client, I just haven’t managed to get rid of him yet. He keeps following me around,” Sherlock said, looking distrustfully at the ferret only to find his glare returned. 

John had the sudden mental image of these two staring at each other in disgust for hours on end. “Does he have a name?”

Sherlock looked at John blankly before his gaze was drawn away by his landlady as she came in and scolded Sherlock for the mess. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did so good naturedly, not in the callous manner he seemed so accustomed to. In return, the landlady – Mrs. Hudson – seemed to dot on him, tidying up around the flat as she lectured him. At this rate, it looked like John was getting a ferret and a surrogate mother along with a flatmate. John sat down heavily in the chair opposite the ferret, ignoring it as it tried to stare him down.

“Did you hear about those Triad murders, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson said. “Sounds right up your alley.”

“Triad murders, gang violence,” Sherlock said hatefully. “It’s boring, not worth my time. Even Lestrade can handle those.”

“So you _are_ a consulting detective,” John said. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him quickly enough to make John pause. “I asked around about you last night,” John explained. “Seemed like a good idea to make sure you weren’t a complete nutter before I moved in.”

Sherlock smirked in a way that was somehow both appreciative and condescending. “No doubt you wasted a few rubles for your trouble. Well, what did you find out?”

To be honest, John hadn’t heard much in the way of concrete fact in his investigation. Only that Sherlock had apparently come to Republic City years ago from a family of minor Fire Nation nobles, and that he currently worked as a consulting detective. John heard far more in the way of opinions on Sherlock, which everyone seemed to have. Consulting detective was by far one of the kinder descriptions given to Sherlock, and John was having trouble formulating words for everything he’d heard about the mad genius Holmes. “That you’re a complete nutter,” John finally said, a smile appearing on his face when Sherlock barked a short laugh. 

Sherlock suddenly stilled by the window, his smile creeping into an unsettling grin. “Mrs. Hudson, I do believe you’re right about those Triad murders after all. I’ll be investigating them shortly, how interesting.”

Footsteps thundered up the stairs and John was shocked to see a Republic City police officer enter the living room. He wore the light, grey body armor that constituted the uniform of the metalbending police officers -- the earthbenders in the police force who also knew how to bend metal. 

“There’s been a fourth,” Sherlock said. “A fourth murder, but you’ve realized that these aren’t just ordinary Triad murders, so you’ve come to me, is that correct?”

The officer sighed. “Will you come?” he asked, running a hand through his silvered hair. 

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be there shortly, Lestrade, though not in your Satomobile,” he said, referring to the police issued motor vehicle Lestrade had driven there. “I’ll be right behind.”

Lestrade sighed, but left the flat, nodding to John and Mrs. Hudson on his way out. Sherlock seemed to restrain himself until Lestrade left, but soon he was jumping up and down around the flat like a mad man – or a complete nutter. Before John could say so much as a word, Sherlock was gone, off to solve some Triad murder spree. Mrs. Hudson tittered about before going downstairs, leaving John to stare at the fire ferret across from him. The fire ferret narrowed its eyes at John and chittered.

“What?” John asked, trying to avoid the feeling of absurdity he felt talking to a ferret, especially one that seemed to get a certain amount of pleasure in staring people down. Though, in all honesty, the feeling of absurdity only increased when Sherlock Holmes came back in and, with a few rapid-fire words and a mention of _danger_ , swept John off to the other side of the city to investigate a Triad murder. Because that was something John did now, apparently. 

///

“You have questions,” Sherlock said indulgently, after they’d slid into the public Satomobile. “I already know your first one: ‘where are we going?’ Easy, crime scene. Your second one is one even _you_ know the answer to, I’m surprised you have to ask: ‘who are you, what do you do?’ You know my name’s Sherlock Holmes and you know I’m a consulting detective, what you don’t know is what that means. Well, when the police are out their depth, which is always, they consult me. Really, John, you do need to come up with some more original questions,” he said in one big rush.

John blinked, his mouth parted slightly. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

“Not out loud,” Sherlock said, doing that annoying little smirk again. 

John sighed, already becoming accustomed to Sherlock’s smartass attitude, and asked, “When we first met, you knew I was an earthbender in the army.”

“I didn’t know, I saw,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Okay,” John said, “but how?”

Sherlock smiled thinly and began speaking, his words coming out even faster than they had when they’d first met in the lab. “It’s easy to tell what kind of bender a person is if you really look. Now you, you’re especially easy, typical earthbender, enduring and patient. Your feet are always planted firmly, and just look at the way you walk. Carefully absorbing the ground’s impact, not even thinking about it, even with that cane in your hand? No fire or waterbender walks like that, no non-bender is aware enough of the earth beneath them to give it that kind of attention. Plus, the way you were standing, at attention, firm stance, not backing down. A stance of both an earthbender and a trained officer. However, you’re likely a self-taught bender, given that you can’t bend metal – if you could you’d be carrying a metal cane, not a wooden one – and that you were a doctor instead of a soldier. Easy to see you’re a doctor, Mike mentioned you were old school mates. You have a tan identical to that of one who wears a standard army officer’s uniform. Listing all places currently in enough conflict to warrant military presence but also near enough to the equator for a tan, that leaves the Hu Xin Provinces or Yu Dao being the most likely, both of them struggling with poverty and nationalistic differences despite years of co-existence.”

“What about…you knew what my therapist said about my limp. And my bending,” John said, trying not to be embarrassed, knowing that this man probably didn’t even know the meaning of the word. 

Sherlock sighed, as if the question was disappointingly easy. “Like I said, your stance was steady. A steady stance _and_ a cane? Likely a psychosomatic injury. As for the bending, earthbending is heavily based in the legs, it relies on lower body contact with the earth, something a limp complicates.”

“And then there’s the matter of your brother,” Sherlock continued, before John could even quite catch up with the whole “I can tell what kind of bender you are by how you walk” thing. “Your pen is definitely not within your price range, it has a fine nib, an engraving. Not something you’d buy yourself, likely a gift. No offense, but you’re seeking a flatshare so you obviously don’t have a significant other to give this to you. A family member then, probably a brother, given the quality of the gift and the engraving. Engraving shows Clara once loved Harry, but seeing as the pen is in your hands and not his, that relationship didn’t last. You’re not close with Harry, he’s probably a non-bender, as while the alcoholism and the wife account for your dislike for him, there’s likely another factor at play as well. Bending and non-bending siblings do have difficulty getting along, mostly because of jealousy. Now as for the alcoholism, the pen has multiple dents in it, not by your hand, you would never be so careless. No one is enough of an idiot to drop a pen that many times, so he’s likely a drunk, keeps picking it up to write it and dropping it when he doesn’t have the coordination to use it. How did I do?” he finished, looking out the window as John gaped at him in amazement. 

“That…was amazing,” John said.

Sherlock looked surprised, or as surprised as he ever seemed to look. He looked at John calculatingly. “You really think so?”

“Yes, that was extraordinary,” John said honestly. 

Sherlock smirked. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock said. “Or, alternatively, ‘why don’t you go say that to an angry platypus bear?’”

John found himself laughing with this man, this madman Sherlock Holmes who could deduce his bending and drag him to crime scenes as easy as if it were breathing. 

///

After correcting Sherlock that Harry was his sister (“Sister! There’s always something.”), John found himself in the stadium where pro-bending tournaments were held.  
One of the largest buildings in the city and John was somehow standing at its very center, a place where only the privileged few had been, on the suspended platform where benders battled for sport in front of thousands. Of course, the place was completely deserted at that moment, the seats empty and barren, leaving only a few police officers standing in the ring along with himself, Sherlock, and a very dead body. John looked down, his eyes widening at the pool of water a hundred meters below. Well, this wasn’t how John had been planning on spending his day. He smiled to himself for a moment before schooling his features and turning back to the crime scene. 

The officer named Lestrade nodded at them. “I need anything you’ve got, Sherlock.”

“What do you have so far?” Sherlock said, carefully eyeing the body. “No doubt you _still_ suspect gang violence. 

Lestrade sighed. “Yes, we _still_ think it’s gang violence. All evidence points to this being Triple Threat Triad murders. The only problem is, the victim didn’t have any Triad connections whatsoever.”

“And neither did any of the other victims,” Sherlock said confidently. 

Lestrade, who was obviously used to Sherlock’s deductions, nodded. “None of them were members, none of them had any shady dealings; hell, it doesn’t look like any of them had ever even _met_ a Triad member.”

“So the question becomes, why did they die?” Sherlock murmured.

“If none of them had any Triad connections, what makes you say it’s gang violence?” John asked. Lestrade looked at John and opened his mouth as if to protest a civilian’s presence here, but after a moment seemed to think that, like most Sherlock-related annoyances, it wasn’t worth the effort complaining. 

“All the victims lived near Triad territory, or as near as you can get without being in the gang or under its thumb.” Lestrade said. “We have reports saying that gang members had been in those areas the nights the victims died. Plus, they leave a calling card. It’s either the Triad, or someone who really wants to look like them. And if it’s the second, there’s no way they would’ve lasted this long on the streets.”

John nodded. Even having just returned from war, he knew as well as anyone else how dangerous the Triad was. His eyes were drawn to the body, where an intricate design had been branded onto the floor. Definitely gang related. 

“John, come look at the body, you’re a man of healing,” Sherlock said, kneeling down next to the body, his eyes flitting around as he examined it. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, exasperated, finally bringing himself to address John’s presence. “You can’t bring friends to a crime scene, it’s bad enough I let you in here. Chief Beifong barely tolerates you as it is.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what Beifong thinks of me,” Sherlock said absently, leaning in close to the body in his observation before glancing back at John. “Well, are you going to look or not?”

John looked at Lestrade, deferring to him. The officer seemed to appreciate it, and only sighed slightly before saying, “Go ahead, look all you want.”

With some maneuvering of his leg, John managed to kneel next to the body alongside Sherlock. He studied the woman lying on the ground, her outlandish pink clothing instantly marking her as one of the wealthy patrons of the business district. “Someone used chi blocking on her,” John said with some surprise, feeling her pressure points. “Probably to subdue her – they attack her pressure points to block her chi so she can’t fight back with bending and she falls like a rock. Then they killed her, likely with some sort of poison.”

“Chi blocking,” Lestrade groaned. “Please tell me these aren’t crazy Equalist killings,” he said, referring to the group of anti-bending fanatics who preferred to fight by blocking the chi of others through specialized hits and punches. 

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “She’s a non-bender, why would she be a target? Plus, there’s still the matter of the burnt insignia on the ground, which the Equalists would hardly have bothered with.”

“How do you know she’s a non-bender?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as if to curse the spirits for forcing him to interact with such imbeciles. “Look where we are, John, we’re in a _pro-bending arena_. There are rock disks here to bend with, there is _water_ here to bend with, and yet the two remain untouched? There was a struggle here, you can tell that by the wear of the ground, but she didn’t try to bend her way out.”

“What about firebending?” Lestrade pressed.

“Scorch marks, Lestrade, do you _see_ any? No, ergo, not a firebender, ergo not a bender of _any_ kind, _ergo_ , the chi blocking was simply used to keep her from fighting back when they gave her the poison,” Sherlock rattled off.

“That’s fantastic,” John said, still amazed despite the fact that he’d already seen Sherlock’s deductions in action that day. 

“Do you know you say that out loud?” Sherlock muttered, nonetheless looking very pleased with himself.

“So she wasn’t a bender and she wasn’t a Triad member,” Lestrade sighed. “This doesn’t make sense. Why execute a textbook Triad murder of someone who has never been involved with the Triad? It’s just plain random.”

“Not random,” Sherlock said, his eyes bright, his grin practically manic. “Random implies no discernible pattern. You see no pattern here because the one that’s _there_ doesn’t meet your expectations.” When Lestrade and John looked at him blankly, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh really, you two, use your brains. You said it yourself, Lestrade, _none_ of them had _any_ dealings with the Triad. Seems a bit suspicious, doesn’t it, that every one of these Triad murders seemingly has nothing to do with the Triad?”

“But what’s the point of gang violence if it achieves nothing?” Lestrade asked. “Killing these people didn’t get the Triad anything.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. “Oh yes it did, Lestrade. It got my attention.” Sherlock stood up and walked away from the body, striding toward where the end of the ring was attached to the bridge that led it to the rest of the stadium. 

‘Wait, Sherlock, what do you mean it got your attention? Why are they doing this?” Lestrade shouted after him. 

“How else would one acquire the attention of a consulting detective except to provide them with an impossible crime scene, a crime with no motives?” Sherlock said, the grin evident in his voice even as he walked farther away. “It means that you’re about to get your man, Lestrade. I’ll send you a wire with the details once I have them.”

Lestrade looked as if he wanted to metalbend some handcuffs onto Sherlock and interrogate an explanation out of him, but knew that it wouldn’t do any good. The detective pinched the edge of his nose. “Okay, boys, let’s wrap this up,” he said to his team.

John was wondering how it could possibly be worth it to work with a man like that when, because apparently John had stumbled into a universe where everyone could read his mind, Lestrade said, “He’s a great man.” The detective signed. “He’d probably be a good one too if he could stop being such a lemur’s arsehole.”

John nodded absently, watching as Sherlock walked by the remaining metalbending officers, not even sparing them a glance as they automatically gave the consulting detective a wide berth. “A firebending consulting detective, how on Earth did that happen?” John mused aloud as Sherlock closed the door to the arena, leaving John and Lestrade alone with the other officers circulating the crime scene. 

Lestrade looked at him carefully, clearly assessing him, as if John hadn’t had enough of that for one day. “You really haven’t known him long, have you?” 

John shook his head. Lestrade sighed. “Well, I suppose this will be the last time I’ll be seeing you then. He has a habit of chasing people away.”

“Not you though,” John noted. 

Lestrade laughed. “Only cause I need him too damn much. I’ve known him five years and I still don’t know what goes on in his funny little brain.” With that, he turned away from John to wrap up his crime scene. John sighed and limped out of the arena, taking care not to look down at the water churning tens of meters below him.

///

Of course, John left the arena to find that Sherlock had well and truly ditched him, which should have surprised John, but really didn’t. John merely sighed and began walking back to his flat, trying to mull over the day’s events. 

With everything that had happened that day, it was easy to see why John didn’t think much of it when a messenger hawk flew above him. He looked at it curiously, though his curiosity quickly turned to unease and he hurried his pace, unnerved by the strange creature. When a second messenger hawk joined the first, well, it was pretty easy to cling to the idea that it wasn’t for him. John was fairly sure nobody even _used_ messenger hawks anymore, and these ones were probably just domestic creatures. There wasn’t anyone who’d want to send John a message anyway. 

When two hawks became three, however, it became difficult to stay in denial, and John sighed and held out his arm for the hawk to perch. The two others joined the first hawk on John’s arm, which was getting John a lot of strange looks from the people on the street. John sighed and took the message, ignoring the hawk’s beady stare. 

_Look around you_ , the first message said. John did and he finally noticed what had been niggling at the back of his mind for quite awhile: there were people watching him. Subtly watching, nothing anyone normal would notice, but well, John wasn’t exact normal, was he?

John sent the first hawk away and took the message from the second. _Now look above._ John’s eyes slid upwards with a sickening feeling in his stomach, one of too much adrenaline with nowhere to go. On the rooftops there were a few people watching, just barely visible. John saw no weapons, but he was pretty sure that they were implied by now. John swallowed heavily and took the third message, reading it with a steady hand. _Get into the Satomobile, Dr. Watson. I’d make some kind of threat, but I believe that’d be overkill by this point_

John almost laughed. Sending three messenger hawks and an entire team to follow him and this person thought _threatening_ him was overkill? A Satomobile pulled up next to him and with a grimace, John saw no choice but to get inside, releasing the two hawks before he did so. 

After a stilled and very one-sided conversation with the beautiful woman in the vehicle, John found himself in an abandoned factory lot, one where they’d used to make the old Satomobile prototypes. All the local kids were creeped out by this place, telling anyone who would listen that it was haunted, and at the moment, John was inclined to agree. 

There was a chair in the middle of the room, illuminated by a wide circle of torches that lined the walls, old fashioned torches lit with fire. Standing next the chair was a man. He was tall, held a simple umbrella, and smiled in a way that was practically _predatory_. The way that he looked at John was even worse than the messenger hawks, all of his focus resting on John, appraising him, studying him as though he were an insect beneath a microscope.

“Please sit down,” the man said in a facsimile of politeness. “Your leg must be hurting you.”

John limped toward the man, resolutely ignoring the chair in front of him. “You know, it’s very clever and all that, but if you wanted to arrange a meeting, you could have sent me a wire. You know, instead of sending me the _three_ messenger hawks,” he said pointedly. “Do people honestly use messenger hawks anymore? Seems a bit outdated.”

The man studied his umbrella unapologetically. “When one wants to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one must be discreet,” he said, as if sending someone a series of messenger hawks on an open street was something subtle. “Sometimes that means avoiding modern technology that is easily traceable. It’s also the reason we’re meeting in this place,” he said gesturing to the empty factory.

“Yes, real spooky, real discreet,” John said impatiently. “Now what do you want?”

The man’s eyes seemed to dissect him again, and John was really getting tired of everybody he’d met today with their damn piercing-through-metal stares. “You don’t seem very afraid,” the man said calculatingly. 

“Yeah, well I’m not very frightened by abandoned factories or by mysterious power plays,” John said curtly. 

The man laughed. “Ah, the bravery of the soldier, and of the earthbender. Bravery is so such a kind word for stupidity, isn’t it? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John blinked. “I…don’t have one. I met him yesterday, I know almost nothing about him.”

“And yet you both seem as happy as can be, running around crime scenes together. Sharing a flat,” the man said, lip curled in interest.

“I didn’t say I was sharing a flat with anyone. And who are you?” John asked, suitably annoyed now.

“An interested party,” the man said. “Someone interested in keeping an eye out for Sherlock Holmes, since he doesn’t seem capable of doing so for himself.”

“A friend?” John remarked skeptically, eyes not leaving the man. 

The man raised an eyebrow, smiling as if John’s ignorance was something quite amusing to him. “Do you really think Sherlock has any friends?” he said quietly, and John thought _a great man, but not a good one_. “I’m more of a…an archenemy I suppose,” the man said finally. “According to him. Always one for the dramatics, Sherlock.”

John smiled tightly. “Thank God you’re above all that,” he said, still a bit put out by the messenger hawk thing. As if reading his thoughts, another hawk swept through the interior of the factory, letting out a piercing cry before settling on John’s shoulder.

“Oh honestly,” John said, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m already here, you don’t need to send me _another_ one.” 

The man eyed the hawk with interest, his eyes gleaming. “That one’s mine, but I didn’t send it. It would seem Sherlock is onto me. And has acquired one of my hawks,” the man lamented. 

John glanced sharply at the man before carefully retrieving the message from the hawk’s leg pouch. _Come at once if convenient. SH._ John turned the message over and smiled at the message on the back of the paper. _If inconvenient come anyway. SH._

The man was still watching John when the messenger hawk left. “What news does Sherlock bring?” he asked casually, and John glared at him. 

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think that’s any of your business,” John said tightly. 

‘It could be,” the man said. “I’m willing to pay you a considerable amount if you were to give me information on Sherlock. Just what he’s up to, what crimes he’s solving. How he’s been wasting his mind and his bending abilities. Nothing indiscreet.”

“Sorry, I don’t think so,” John said firmly. He knew it gave him away, that it was his battle stance, but his feet automatically planted themselves on the ground as if he were preparing himself to earthbend, as if he had to make himself unbreakable. 

The man obviously saw this and his eyes narrowed. “You’re very loyal, very quickly, even despite your…’trust issues’ did your therapist say?” The man pulled a notebook from his jacket. John was sweating, far too warm, and looking at the torches lining the walls he saw that they was flicking _slightly_ too violently for a normal flames. His eyes darted back over to this man who smiled as if pleased to see that John had finally observed the obvious, had finally picked up on the fact that this man was a firebender. A firebender who was more subtle in his threats than John had initially thought. 

“Your therapist thinks you’re haunted by the war, she thinks your limp, your intermittent tremor, even your bending difficulties are all due to post traumatic stress disorder,” the man said, reading from the notebook before glancing sharply at John. “However you know as well as I do that she’s wrong. You’re not haunted by the war, John, you miss it.”

John swallowed heavily, trying to control his breathing, to keep his senses open in case this man decided to attack him right here. “Who the hell are you?” John asked. “And how did you know all that?”

“You should fire her, Dr. Watson,” the man said, closing the notebook and putting it back into his pocket. “Look at your hand now,” he mused. “You’ve been kidnapped and threatened by a firebender with enough power to take you from right under the nose of Sherlock Holmes, and there’s not a tremor to be found. I suppose I can see why you’ve come to like Sherlock. If there’s anything to be said for him, it’s that he knows where to find the battlefield underneath the lights and Satomobiles of Republic City.”

The man walked away, effectively dismissing John, whose head was still spinning from the sudden turns of this conversation. “This is a new kind of war, Dr. Watson,” called he man, “one not caused by bending or nationalistic differences. I do believe it’s time for you to choose a side.”

The man shrank into the shadows and the torch lights went out in a puff of smoke, leaving John alone in an abandoned factory lit only by cracks of moonlight, wondering what the hell was happening with his life. 

///

“Who the hell has archenemies?” John wondered, stabbing a piece of eel on his plate. “Especially ones who kidnap innocent bystanders off the street?”

Sherlock glanced at John before returning his gaze to the restaurant window. “Technically you’re neither innocent nor a bystander, considering your stint in the army and continued association with me,” Sherlock said. Catching John’s glare, Sherlock added, “Though of course, the kidnapping was completely unexpected. I’ll have a word with him the next time we talk.”

“You have regular conversations with your archenemy?” John asked, incredulous.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “He’s my brother.” Sherlock’s fire ferret sat lazily on his shoulder, glancing between John and Sherlock with only mild interest at their conversation. Sherlock scowled, still put-out that his pet had managed to follow them here. 

John’s mouth dropped open of its own accord. “Your brother? That insane, firebending, omnipresent stalker was your brother?”

“He is not omnipresent, he just likes to think he is. And, yes, John, he’s my brother, haven’t you been listening?” Sherlock said, seeming irritated at having to repeat himself.

John really didn’t know how to respond to that, but luckily he didn’t have to say a word, as Sherlock bolted out of his seat and lunged toward the door. “John, he’s here! Quickly!”

They had been sitting in Angelo’s -- a restaurant smack dab in the middle of Triad territory – for ages waiting for a member to appear so they could…well, to be honest, John wasn’t quite sure what Sherlock wanted with the gang member. But as soon as Sherlock ran out the door, he slammed into a Satomobile, the fire ferret screeching in alarm before running off. John ran after Sherlock, managing to keep pace with the wiry detective. 

The Triad member spotted Sherlock – hard not to spot the lunatic in a dark coat chasing after you – and pealed away, sliding into the back of a Satomobile and driving away. 

“How are we going to get him now?” John asked, panting as Sherlock screeched to a halt. Sherlock only smiled, closing his eyes for a brief second before snapping them open and running off. John sighed, but ran after him, feeling a smile creep across his lips.

Sherlock led them through alleyways, down every backstreet John had been told to avoid as a teen, and finally up onto the rooftops. Sherlock seemed to pull momentum out of nowhere, leaping across the buildings with enough ease to make John wonder if the consulting detective was secretly an airbender. Sherlock jumped across a particularly wide gap, barely making it, and John froze at the edge of the roof, unable to move.

“Come along, John!” came Sherlock’s impatient, fading voice. 

John’s eyebrows knitted and without really thinking about it he tightened his stance, spread out his legs, and threw his fists down, the concrete beneath his feet lifting up and propelling John across the gap, his momentum almost carrying him too far, landing him right on the edge of the next rooftop. John had been silent in astonishment in the air but barked out a laugh as soon as his feet hit the ground. “Oh my God,” he said, giggling. “Oh my God.”

He was startled from his celebration by the petulant, “John, if you’re quite done rediscovering your earthbending, could you hurry up?” that could be heard a few buildings over, so with a grin, John propelled himself upward again, using the concrete beneath him to earthbend across the rooftops. And all without his cane. God damn it if he didn’t feel better than he had in a long, long time. 

Soon Sherlock had himself and John on the ground again and, much to John’s exasperation, threw himself on the fleeing Satomobile to make it stop. John bended the earth around the vehicle to surround the tires, stopping the automobile in its tracks. “Get out of the Satomobile,” he said calmly, his hand steadier than ever. 

Sherlock smiled, carefully watching the Triad member and his driver get out of the automobile. The driver had a pouch of water at his disposal and the Triad member instantly had flames in his hands. Benders obviously, but Sherlock was smug enough to want to take them on. “How about you take the firebender, John,” he said conversationally. “I’ll take the waterbender, then perhaps we can continue our dinner.” 

“You think you’re good enough to take on members of the Triple Threat?” the firebender laughed. “You’re going to pay for making that assumption.”

“And you’ll ‘pay’ for assuming you can take out a trained solider with your mediocre firebending,” Sherlock said before turning his attention to the waterbender. John left him to it, narrowing his vision to his own battle, widening his stance as the firebender sneered at him. 

John took a deep breath as the firebender struck, the world slowing down for him as it always did when he fought. John slid to the side, dodging the fireball and ducking under the one that came right after it. Classic firebending fighting style, overwhelm the opponent with offensive moves, attacking directly. Much like the stereotyped personality of most firebenders, John thought, casting a glance at Sherlock, who was smirking as he evaded the waterbender’s attacks.

“You’re going to have to make a move eventually,” the firebender growled, letting loose a ferocious punch that sent a constant stream of fire toward John. John turned his attention back toward his own fight and planted his feet, done with dodging, bringing up a column of earth to shield him from the flames. John grimaced, the heat licking through his defenses as he waited for a halt in the attack. It wasn’t long before the firebender tired, ending the flame attack, and John shot forth the column at the bender.

The firebender jumped up, dodging the attack, but when his feet met the ground, John grinned. “Gotcha,” he said, bringing up earth to cover the bender’s feet. The firebender grunted and fell over, and as soon as his hands hit the ground, John trapped them within the earth too, leaving the man immobile and unable to bend. 

John released a deep breath and looked over to where Sherlock was fighting. The match was clearly almost over, Sherlock easily bobbing and weaving around his opponent, not even firing a shot, just letting the bender use up all his energy before grabbing one of his punches and throwing him to the ground. 

Sherlock wiped his hands on his trousers before smiling at John. “Well done, John. “

John nodded. “Same to you. Wow, I knew you were trained, but I didn’t know you were that good. Did you even have to firebend to win that fight?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and then smirked. “Of course not. It was child’s play. Now, let’s see what we can find out from these Triad members. Perhaps they can lead us to the real culprit here,” he said, studying them closely.

“No need for that,” a voice from the rooftop said. “I’m right here.” 

Sherlock and John looked up, but this new addition to the fight leapt down and quickly jabbed Sherlock several times in succession, leaving the unsuspecting consulting detective to fall to the ground, motionless. “You,” Sherlock rasped. “You’re the chi blocker.”

John had his guard up, whirling around to face the opponent, but someone swept his legs out from under him, forcing him to hit the ground hard. A series of punches to his pressure points left John rigid and unable to bend. “Sherlock!” he cried, still trying to find this chi blocker, figuring maybe he try and get him without bending, could at least knock him down and run.

“That’s enough of that,” the voice said as a large weight crashed into John’s skull, sending him hurtling toward unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

John’s head was aching when he awoke, pounding pistons firing off far too fast in his head as he tried to get it up to speed. He groaned, his hands and feet restrained by metal chains, strapped onto a steel block. So earthbending was out of the picture then. Fantastic. 

“It seems your friend is finally awake,” a voice called, different from the one of the chi blocker, this one higher and lighter. 

“Well done, it seems you _can_ observe,” drawled an all-too familiar baritone. “I was worried for a moment that my captor had put us into completely incompetent hands. Speaking of which, where is he exactly?”

“None of your concern,” the voice said breezily. 

John cracked his eyes open, wincing at the sudden light, and saw Sherlock was chained to a metal block similar to John’s. Sherlock shot him a grin before turning back to their captor, a tall, broad shouldered woman with dark hair. 

“Let me guess,” Sherlock said, casting his eyes lazily about the woman, analyzing her far more coldly than John had ever seen him do to anyone. “Waterbender. Worked your way to the middle ranks of this organization, skilled, but mostly expendable. You like one of your ‘co-workers’ but won’t tell him, and your sister is a non-bender whom you’re very protective of. She’s the reason you joined the Triad, wanted to get money for her schooling. Not far off, am I?” Sherlock smiled tightly at her, not seeming terribly bothered by the chains encasing his hands and feet. 

The woman looked shocked for a moment, and then smirked. “Nice try, Holmes. They told me you would do that. Too bad it won’t get you out of those chains. Can’t get out with your bending either, so don’t even think about trying it. Firebending won’t work in this room.”

“Of course not, it’s a freezer,” Sherlock said, nodding. John could feel it too, the arctic air that was being pushed out of the vents, shrouding the room in a cold fog, leaving everyone’s breath to come out as mist. John’s hands were trembling in their chains, gooseflesh covering his arms and legs. Even Sherlock was trembling slightly, his lips a faint blue. While the cold wouldn’t make firebending impossible, the harsh temperature could weaken it to the point where Sherlock would be no match for this waterbender, no matter what his skill. 

“Yep,” she said. “We’ve got the word off the street, Holmes, we know you’re a firebender. Your very own friend said so earlier,” she said, jerking her head to John. Guilt flooded John’s system as he recalled what he’d said to Sherlock after the fight, not even bothering to think if the threats had been adequately neutralized. He’d given Sherlock away, opened up his weaknesses to these people!

Sherlock nodded gravely. “Yes, and this room would make it difficult for any firebender to effectively fight. They would have to warm up their own system first, expending energy to do so, and even if they managed that, it would take even more energy to create a flame in a freezing room. Simple science,” Sherlock said, a smile creeping onto his face. “Really quite ingenious actually. Unfortunately, you have made the assumption that most everyone makes when they meet me, probably due to my ‘fiery personality’ as Mummy always liked to say. Of course, I can’t say that I do anything to correct that assumptions, as it usually seems to work to my advantage, especially in situations like these,” Sherlock said, nodding to his chains and then looking sharply back at the woman. “Which is why I’m afraid you’re about to be beaten. You’ve drawn your conclusions without enough evidence, and now you will pay the price for your rash assessment.”

John’s eyes widened, he strained at his chains as Sherlock spoke. _No way_ , he thought, mentally kicking himself for making the exact same mistake that the woman had made. The woman didn’t appear to catch on though, frowning at Sherlock. “What are you talking about? What assumption?” she asked, automatically moving into a fighting stance.

Sherlock looked at her from his metal block and grinned. “I am no firebender,” he said, suddenly moving his arms as much as he could given their confinement, sweat shining against his brow despite the cold. Sherlock lifted his arms in the air and the fog around them condensed into water, slicing through his chains when he brought his arms down. Sherlock shook the irons off and leapt to his feet, manipulating the water in his hands, grinning wildly as he threw his arms out to strike the woman with the water. 

“You’re a waterbender,” she hissed, managing to take control of the stream before if hit her, violently throwing it back at Sherlock. 

“And you’re just a lowly Triad member with aspirations for greatness,” Sherlock said, effortlessly catching the water. It thrived in his hands, alive and moving, snakelike, ready to strike. “But you are severely outmatched. I am Sherlock Holmes, I have studied all known styles of bending and fighting, and I am a waterbending master,” he said calmly. “Do you really think you can win?”

With that, Sherlock tossed the water into the air before throwing himself up with it, spinning and throwing his feet down, using them to slice the water at the woman. John and the woman’s eyes both widened at the distinctly firebending technique being used to waterbend. The woman tried to fight back, using standard and practiced waterbending moves, but it was like Sherlock said – he was a master. And he was no ordinary master either. At one moment he adopted an earthbending stance and thrust his arms forward to control the water, at another he avoided her attacks using the sweeping spiral movements of the airbenders, and he continued to use the ferocious punches and kicks that were reminiscent of firebending. Even though city styles of bending tended to blend the different techniques anyway, Sherlock took it to a whole new level, his style something new and even frightening in its efficiency. Sherlock took the water and drew it up around himself, using the great, flowing movements of the waterbenders to cascade the water down on the woman, freezing it into ice form to trap her. The woman, far too exhausted to change it back to water, slumped in defeat, all but her head captured in the ice. 

Sherlock smiled dangerously at her. “I win,” he said viciously, before turning to John and using the water to cut through his chains as well. 

John was…dumbstruck to say the least. Gaping at Sherlock Holmes seemed to be his new state of being, he was doing it so often today. He rubbed his wrists and sputtered, trying to form a coherent sentence in the wake of that display. “That…that was…”

“Freakish, I know,” Sherlock said with a grimace. “Don’t worry, John, if you no longer wish to keep the flat or remain acquaintances, I will, of course, understand.”

“Freakish? What are you talking about, that was astounding!” John cried. “Where did you learn to do that?”

A smile appeared on Sherlock’s face, this one different from any of the coldly calculating ones he had worn before, this one born of surprise and maybe even delight. “Like I said, I’ve studied all types of bending. Why simply study waterbending techniques when there are three other styles to learn as well?”

John laughed, leftover adrenaline and newfound freedom filling him to the brim and spilling over. “You’re a waterbender, you great prat. Were never going to tell me?”

Sherlock smiled again. “Like I said, it works to my advantage that people don’t know. And I was curious to see how long it would take you to figure it out.”

John actually laughed at that. “You were testing me. Of course you were. Well I hope I wasn’t too disappointing.”

“Nah, you got it in time for the big reveal. Few even accomplish that.”

“Yeah? Let me guess, Lestrade is one of those people too,” John asked, half-curious and half-joking. 

Sherlock looked at him carefully, studying him as if he’d done something unexpected, something extraordinary, when really John had just been being…John. “I’m far too used to such assumptions to bother correcting people,” Sherlock said after a moment, with a sort of strong, self-assured voice that came from years of lacking any kind of assurance, of defending oneself against distrust, a sort of tone that came from being forced to be too strong, to build walls to shut everyone else out. “Rarely does anyone bother to search for the truth: that water is the element of change, that waterbending is about using someone’s own offense against them.”

And God, could John see that, the way Sherlock deduced people, using their own flaws against them when provoked, how adaptable Sherlock seemed to be, flowing and changing to suit the terrain while still remaining constant. “I’m sorry,” John said, guilt rising to the surface.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s the assumption everyone makes, and a logical one at that.” Nonetheless he turned to John with a grateful sort of smile, a bit crooked from disuse. “Though if we’re going to have any more heartfelt moments, I think I would prefer it if we left this Triad base before doing so.”

John chuckled, nodding. “Agreed.” 

Sherlock froze some water off the ground and put the cube of ice in his pocket. “I don’t think we’ll make it out of here unnoticed,” he said warily. John looked to Sherlock and nodded, and Sherlock carefully opened the door in front of him, dashing inside the room with John right on his heels, both of them instantly assuming a fighting stance.

The room was barren but for a single man, small, old enough to almost look weak if one overlooked the gleam in his eyes, the life and hate that bred there. “Hello,” he said. John froze as he recognized the voice as the one belonging to the chi blocker, Sherlock doing the same beside him. 

“Don’t be surprised,” the old man said, “you knew I would find you. Name’s Hope, not that you’ll be alive long enough to remember it.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I had enough time listening to your incompetent underling to figure out who you are. You’re an Equalist who infiltrated the Triad and used them to select specific targets. This wasn’t revenge, however. Your targets were not benders or even those sympathetic to bending. They were seemingly random victims, all designed to capture my attention. You wanted me.”

“That’s spot on. I’m not surprised though, they did say you were good,” Hope acknowledged. “Probably not good enough to make it out of here alive though.”

“You’re outnumbered,” John said, watching as Hope’s eyes shifted toward him as if just realizing he was there. 

“Watson is it? Yeah, I might be outnumbered, but you’re only as good as your bending. What do you become when I take that away?” Hope said, subtly shifting toward a fighting position himself.

John grimaced at the memory of being utterly helpless after his chi had been blocked. Sherlock nonchalantly cocked his head at the old man, but John didn’t miss the tightening of Sherlock’s stance. 

“Well,” Sherlock said. “I’m here. You have my attention. Now what do you want?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t want anything. I’m just the messenger,” Hope said before moving lightning fast, running right toward John. John felt his fear rising, the thought of being unable to bend again making him feel sick and he lashed out at the man, hurling rock after rock at him, only to find that Hope had dodged every one. Before he or Sherlock could do anything, Hope was behind John, jabbing him until he fell to the ground, useless. 

“Sherlock,” he groaned, unable to move his legs or arms. He could barely even move his head. “Get out of here, run.”

Sherlock shook his head minutely, kneeling down and glancing over John briefly before turning the brunt of his glare to the old man. Sherlock’s eyes raged with fire, the kind that raked landscapes and burnt down forests, the kind that firebenders could only dream of harnessing. “Unless harming my colleague was a part of your message, I encourage you to continue,” he said, his voice filled with ice. 

“Oh no, I just did that to Watson so he couldn’t get in the way. This was meant to be a private meeting, you see,” he said, casting a disapproving eye over John, as if he were a child who’d been too loud and whiny in the market. “I do have a message though. Would you like to know what it is?” Hope leaned in, his voice just above a whisper. “‘Watch out, Sherlock Holmes. You’re not the only one playing in Republic City now.’”. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s the message?”

“Well, that’s all I had to tell. My instructions were to deliver the message, and then do what I want with you. And now that we have the first part out of the way, I’m quite looking forward to the second.” The old man’s eyes gleamed in the dim room as he took a step toward Sherlock, Sherlock automatically taking a step backward to put space between himself and the chi blocker. 

“And what do you intend to do with me? Take away my bending and kill me? You wouldn’t last a minute,” Sherlock snarled, keeping his arms protectively against his sides, glancing at John every now and again. 

“I’d expect that from a bender,” Hope said, nodding. “Think you’re superior to everyone else, just because you can move a bit of water. You know what happens with most benders when you chi block them? They can’t even fight back. Can’t even use their brains, don’t have them because they’ve been too busy showing off what they think is their birth-right.” Hope’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “People are so stupid. Why can’t they just think, instead of relying on their bending?”

Sherlock’s lips drew themselves in a tight line, his damnable pride showing. “I’m afraid to inform you that that’s the case with all people, not just benders. Sorry to disappoint.” Sherlock smiled tightly, but his eyes were still wary, never leaving Hope’s face. 

“Oh, don’t give up just yet. I’m not done with you. We’re going to play a game, you and I, give you a chance to prove yourself. Let’s see if you’re better than the others.”

“A game?” Sherlock asked, interest showing despite himself. 

Hope smiled. “A duel.”

///

John groaned internally. This was becoming a battle of the wits between two complete and utter lunatics. And here he was, hardly able to move. But he was John bloody Watson and damn it if he didn’t live to defy expectations. _Think_ , he frowned. _Think your way out_. John Watson began breathing deeply, straining his neck so that it was completely touching the earth. He could feel the ground beneath him, solid, constant, and he thought, _I can do this_. Beneath the surface, the earth began shifting as John lost himself to his own concentration. 

///

“It’s really quite simple. If I get to you, I block your chi, and well, you’re helpless then, aren’t you? I can kill you easy. Of course, if you manage to take me down, I’d be surprised, but I’d go with you quietly. So how’s it sound?” Hope said. “Do you think you’re good enough to beat me? The great Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock frowned. “But why? Why play this game, what do you have to gain? Your message has already been delivered, no doubt you’ve already been paid for delivering it. So why challenge me?”

“Because I want to prove I can beat you, Mr. Holmes. I’m tired of people underestimating me just because I’m not a bender. But it’s me who’s got the last laugh, cause I can take out any bender in this city. Even you,” he said, leaping forward. 

Sherlock dodged Hope’s attack, bringing forth his water and attacking ruthlessly with it, slicing Hope at every moment, drowning him with the stream, but it was difficult for Sherlock to focus on an attack for more than a second before being forced to evade Hope’s punches. It was a dynamic dance between the two, Sherlock attempting an attack before stepping back to avoid one of Hope’s. It was a matter of endurance more than anything, both of them bobbing and weaving, dodging and attacking, Sherlock being forced to move in tight circular movements, unable to get any shots in. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John murmured, closing his eyes to focus his energy on the earth, feeling the vibrations against his head, the weight of the dirt, the movement of the creatures beneath the ground. 

Sherlock jumped in the air to avoid a jab from Hope, bringing his water crashing down as he descended to the earth. At the same time, Hope struck upward, finally catching Sherlock in the arm. Sherlock cried out and landed with a stumble, falling to the ground and clinging to his arm. Hope had a wide cut across his own arm where the water had sliced him. Both of them were breathing heavily, clutching their arms and staring at each other. 

“It would seem we’re evenly matched,” Hope said.

“Hardly,” Sherlock said, raising his good arm in a preemptive defense. “Want to back out before it’s too late?”

“What do you think?” Hope said with a toothy grin, circling Sherlock once again, a predator who’d already cornered his kill. John’s stomach plummeted as he realized Sherlock had been backed into a corner of the room, left with little room to dodge Hope’s advances. 

_It’s now or never,_ John thought, hitting his head against the ground with as much force as he could manage, feeling the earth give way, feeling the building rock as the ground swayed from side to side, dust rising up from the floor as John feebly tried to earthbend with only his head to maneuver with. 

Hope and Sherlock stumbled where they stood, Sherlock being the first to figure out what had happened and glance over at John, followed by Hope. 

“You really think you can upset the status quo, bending like that?” Hope said. “You do better than most, I’ll give you that, but it won’t be enough to save your friend. You do anything funny and I’ll end Holmes right here, Watson, no more games.” Hope backed up so that he had eyes on both Sherlock and John, his gaze flickering between the pair of them. Sherlock eyed Hope warily, clearly unsure of how this fight would end, but forcing a smile anyway. Arrogant bastard. 

John frowned and focused his attention back on the earth. With the ground shaken and loose from the miniature quake John had created, it was simple enough to latch onto a small rock with his mind. It was however, nearly impossible to try to shape the damn thing without touching it. John closed his eyes in concentration, gritting his teeth as he tried to sharpen the rock with his mind, make a weapon of some sort. The effort exhausted him, but he had something, a weapon, as small and useless as it was. John wasn’t sure he even had the energy to bend the rock, especially without the use of his hands and feet, and _especially_ when he only had one shot at this, one shot at incapacitating Hope before he took out Sherlock. Damn his exhaustion and damn his blocked chi, what John really needed was a window of opportunity. 

Perhaps sensing John’s distress, or perhaps because it never seemed to leave a disaster unattended to, a certain fire ferret decided to let himself in through the window, scurrying across the floor before perching on Sherlock’s shoulder. The ferret hissed at Hope before glaring at Sherlock, as if blaming him for having left it behind during their initial chase of the Triad member. 

Hope laughed. “Well, I suppose now it’s three on one, eh? A waterbender without a working arm, a scrawny fire ferret, and a useless earthbender. I don’t know how I stand a chance!”

“I wouldn’t say I’m useless,” John grunted, finally able to make his move, jerking his head forward and putting as much force behind the bullet-shaped piece of rock as he could, building up the attack in his mind before letting it loose. The rock went straight through Hope’s heart and embedded itself in the wall. Hope looked down at his chest, mouth gaping, before collapsing to the floor. 

John’s head felt like it was on fire after that display, flames licking the sides of his mind and burning dully at his senses. He dimly heard Sherlock shouting at Hope -- something about a Moriarty, whatever that was -- before coming over to John. 

“John,” Sherlock said, as if from very far away, “are you alright? Are you alright?”

Sherlock’s fire ferret, in a selfless show of support, took that moment to nuzzle worryingly at John’s face before proceeding to _sit_ on his face. 

“You little fucker,” John managed to say before passing out for the second time that day. 

///

John awoke to sore, but mobile limbs, a splitting headache, and a fire ferret sound asleep on his chest. “I can see why Sherlock likes you, I think,” he said blearily, petting the ferret before letting his arm collapse at his side. John closed his eyes, contemplating falling asleep right where he was. He was clearly on a stretcher of some kind, and had probably already been attended to by healers if the relief in his arms and legs was any indication. He could hear Lestrade and Sherlock talking a few meters away, and it should probably worry John how familiar and comforting the sound of them arguing was.

“John was unconscious for the majority of the event, as I told you,” Sherlock said curtly. 

“And I’m sure the signs of earthbending are just a coincidence then,” Lestrade replied, skeptical as ever. 

“John attempted to earthbend while his chi was blocked, resulting in the minor earthquake in the building, but he passed out from the effort. Hope and I continued dueling, but it was interrupted when the rock shot him in the chest. I know you can’t help being an idiot, Lestrade, but think it through: John was far too exhausted to attempt an attack of any kind, he’s clearly not the shooter.”

John opened his eyes out of surprise, fairly sure that he’d just heard Sherlock Holmes lie for him. He had no time to process why the consulting detective would do such a thing before Lestrade continued talking. 

“Alright,” Lestrade conceded. “Then who was the shooter?”

“How should I know? There are hundreds of earthbenders in the city, and eliminating the ones who don’t hold a grudge against the Triad or the Equalists will hardly diminish the list. I doubt you’ll find them,” Sherlock said.

“Won’t stop us from looking,” Lestrade said, sounding stubborn, but only half-heartedly so, apparently willing to drop the subject. “That was a stupid thing you did, Sherlock, accepting his challenge for a duel.”

“As you’ve already told me.”

“Still,” Lestrade said. “Do you think he had you beat?”

There was a pause before Sherlock said, “No. Of course, there’s no way of knowing, the shooter arrived before we could finish.”

Another pause. “I’m glad you’re okay, Sherlock.”

John blinked a few times, never having heard anyone speak to Sherlock so kindly, nor Sherlock showing anyone so much respect when he replied, “Thank you.”

John smiled to himself, closing his eyes and petting the fire ferret behind the ears as he heard Lestrade walk away. 

“What are you so happy about?” Sherlock asked him, and John opened his eyes to find Sherlock right in front of him. 

“Oh, nothing. You know, I just went to a crime scene, chased down a Triad member, got kidnapped, took out an Equalist, and met an absolute madman named Sherlock Holmes. Pretty much an average day for me,” John said shrugging. 

There was a short silence in which Sherlock didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and John started giggling at the absurdity of it all, at having this conversation with Sherlock at God knows what time of day. Sherlock began chuckling alongside him, a true smile on his face, one of those precious ones where he looked like he was surprised to be smiling. 

“Yes, well, that was a good shot,” Sherlock said. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said, smiling drowsily as he combed his hand through the fire ferret’s fur. 

“Of course not,” Sherlock said. Then he looked at John, not quite analyzing him, but instead just _looking_ at him, as if he was really trying to _see_ John. “But, whoever the shooter was, his abilities were greater than he originally let on. Being able to earthbend with no contact with the ground save for his head, that’s something not many could do. Given that this shooter never had a master, but did serve abroad, I’d have to say that he learned it in his time in the military,” Sherlock said carefully. “Am I right?”

John sighed, laying his head down and looking up at the night sky, stars gleaming against the black backdrop. “If I had to guess, I’d say you were right. Even as a doctor in the army there’s always danger, and sometimes you don’t realize it until it’s too late.” John breathed deeply before continuing. “When you’re taken captive, you have a lot of time to listen to the earth and find the meaning of earthbending and all that crap, but all you really need is an opportunity. It was the same thing in there: I saw an opportunity and I took it,” John said, feeling as though he was cut open for Sherlock to see, his stomach and lungs and heart laid out, all of it for Sherlock. “Hypothetically of course,” John added. 

“Of course,” Sherlock said quietly, still staring at John, as if he were a mystery that was remaining stubbornly unsolved. Blinking he said, “I believe I may have underestimated you, John Watson. You’re not like other earthbenders.”

John laughed. “And you’re not like other waterbenders. Well, actually, you’re just not like anyone.”

“I take that as a compliment,” Sherlock said, smirking.

“Though I do believe that the real hero today is this little one,” John said, holding up the fire ferret in celebration, something which said ferret looked quite annoyed about. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said in disgust. “I suppose I’ll actually have to keep it now.” The ferret scowled at Sherlock, but licked his cheek, forcing a brief smile out of the consulting detective. 

Lestrade walked toward them, grinning when he saw Sherlock and the ferret. “That’s just adorable,” Lestrade commented. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at Lestrade, but the ferret didn’t really help his case when it followed Sherlock’s example and tried to stare down the metalbending officer.

“You should name it,” John said helpfully. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took the ferret in his arms, looking at it contemplatively, before glancing at the metalbending officer. “Good work tonight, Lestrade.”

Lestrade blinked in surprise, but nodded. “Thank you-“

“Not you,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “The fire ferret.”

John and Lestrade both looked at Sherlock helplessly. “You’re naming it Lestrade?” John asked, raising an eyebrow, unable to help the grin that spread itself across his face. 

“Of course. It’s the perfect name. He’s annoying and useless, but still manages to come in handy every now and again. Isn’t that right, Lestrade?” The ferret chittered in either irritation or happiness, it was difficult to tell. Lestrade was still staring at Sherlock in slight disbelief. 

“I’d punch you in the face,” Lestrade said slowly, “but I think that’s the closest I’m ever going to get to a compliment from you.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said breezily, absentmindedly stroking Lestrade-the-ferret’s head.

“You know I still have half a mind to punch you anyway.”

“Yes, I know.”

John cleared his throat, feeling that there were still certain things that the consulting detective needed to be made aware of. “Um, Sherlock. You do realize that Lestr…that the ferret is a girl, right?”

Sherlock blinked. “It is?” Without warning he flipped Lestrade-the-ferret over, bringing forth a screech on the ferret’s part and a sigh from John. “Hmm, what do you know,” Sherlock said. 

“So you’re still going to name it that?” John said, trying to hold onto his giggles for Lestrade-the-human’s sake. Lestrade-the-ferret jumped out of Sherlock’s arms and climbed onto John’s shoulder, shooting a glare at the consulting detective once there.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I? Now if you’ll excuse us, Lestrade, we’re off to get dinner,” Sherlock said, walking away, leaving Lestrade to look at Sherlock with a certain mixture of annoyance and affection that John was already all too familiar with. The metalbender sighed. “Well, at least he meant it nicely.”

John laughed and nodded at Lestrade before running to catch up with Sherlock. They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the thrill of adventure and danger still thrumming dimly in John’s veins. “So, what now?” he asked.

Sherlock seemed to think about it for a moment before finally talking, speaking quickly, as if his words needed to catch up with all the things his mind wanted to say. “I meant it about the dinner, I really am hungry -- don’t think I’ve eaten in a few days -- but after that, well, it’s safe to assume you’re going to move into the flat. Then I suppose we’ll solve more crimes, I’ll do my experiments, you do whatever you do, and it’ll all work out marvelously. Sound good?”

It wasn’t really a question, and John probably needed to talk to Sherlock about things like eating and experiments, but for now John just grinned and said, “Absolutely.”


End file.
